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Twas the night before Christ-mass
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the gym Not a barbell was stirring, nor lifted by a limb. The dumbbells were laid on their racks with care, In hopes that the Saint Nicholats, soon would be there. The swole were nestled all snug in their beds While visions of PR's danced in their heads. And mamma in her shorts, and I in my tank, Had just settled our stomachs, though our protein farts were rank. When out in the weightroom there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bench to see what was the matter. Away to the free weights I flew in a flash, past the smith machine, to find the source of the crash. The moon on the breast of the weight-room floor, Gave the lustre of midday to the striations in my core. When what to my wondering eyes should arrive, But a miniature squat rack, and eight tiny 45s! The little old squatter, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment, is must be Swole Nick. More perfect than any, his form did maintain, As he breathed and grunted, and counted reps all the same. "Now one, and two, and three, and four, on, faithful quads, we must achieve more! 'Til we reach utter failure, 'til we can squat no more. Now squat and squat on, like never before!" As hydraulics that lift great machines up high, When bearing great weight, they move toward the sky, So up from the hole, his hips did drive, With a bar loaded with plates, for rep number five. And then, in a twinkling, I heard from behind, The voice of a spotter, encouraging the grind. As I followed the voice and was turning around, The spotter stepped forward with a graceful bound. He was dressed in short-shorts, and wore nothing else His physique was God-like, with a defined Adonis belt. Two feathered wings unfolded from his back, He looked like an Angel as he approached the rack. His eyes--how they shone! His smile so white, His glutes perfectly sculpted, it was quite a sight. His arms he held out, quick to assist, As Swole Nick pressed on and continued to lift. Wavy black hair laid atop the spotter's head, His lats, though relaxed, by themselves did spread. He had a strong jaw, lightly dusted with stubble, His large traps rose like mountains from rubble. He was shredded and lean, with perfect aesthetics, And I gasped when I saw him, admiring his cosmetics. The sound of his voice and a nod from his head, Told ol' Swole Nick, he had more reps ahead. With arms under arms, placed there for aid, The spotter did spot, until fatigue Swole Nick displayed. Then shouting "one more!" with all of his might, Swole Nick did complete the final rep of the night. With weight re-racked, the spotter did turn, As our eyes met, with passion my heart did burn. Before my eyes, both faded quickly from sight, Consumed before me in a twinkling light. But before the mysterious spotter did go, He spoke several words, their message was so: "We're all gonna make it." he said with grin, And with that, they vanished, from where they had been. Twas the night before Christ-mass as told by 907TurdBurglar